


CinemaScope

by tea_pops



Category: The Gentlemen (2019)
Genre: F/F, Post-Canon, ray plays detective and falls in love with a cowboy, this is a toddlers stan account first and a fic second
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:34:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24070684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_pops/pseuds/tea_pops
Summary: “If it’s a prequel you desire, then who am I to deny such a reasonable request. I must warn you, though —“ Fletcher lifts a warning finger, aimed like a gun. “This screenplay isn’t quite as polished as the last one, is it? Criticism isn’t welcomed, let alone underworked, overpaid commentators.”“You’ll find thatunderworkedisn’t a characteristic of mine, Fletcher.” Ray notions him to continue with a wave of his hand. “Hurry on, now. Give us the opening scene.”
Relationships: Raymond Smith/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 36





	CinemaScope

I.

Fletcher’s got himself a nice abode.

Humble, unlike the man himself. Packed with just as much personality, only not quite as lewd. Everything clashes – the drapes don’t match the furniture or the carpet, which makes Ray wrinkle his nose every time he unwittingly acknowledges it. Knick-knacks line up and down display shelves, and it doesn’t escape his attention that there’s a suspicious lack of intimate photos, save for the sentimental one perched next to Fletcher’s frumpy little bed.

The floorboards creak, the lighting flickers, and everywhere Ray goes there seems to be a nifty amount of dust. It’s a quaint assortment of invaluables.

One thing he can credit the sly old cunt, though, is that Fletcher can be rather organized when he cares to be. Take away the oily slickness and he’s a meticulous little animal, and the crème de le crème, pièce de résistance, centerpiece of his little hideaway is his _collection_.

Stacked on a flooring-to-ceiling and just-as-wide bookshelf is a handy look inside Fletcher’s brain. It takes Ray a few minutes to figure out his method of organization – not alphabetized by title or sorted by release date (a favorite of Ray’s, if he has to rate them). Not even by color, which Ray _abhors_.

It’s genre.

Left to right and top shelf first, Fletcher starts hot and heavy from the beginning. Pure horror flicks, gutty and grimy things like the _Evil Dead’s_ that sharpen to psychological gore like _Rosemary’s Baby_. And after horror comes everything else, doesn’t it. Genres and sub-genres. Passion and fear and blood and laughter. Nothing too noteworthy in his collection, at least by Ray’s standards, although he admits that the Tarantino twat’s written his fair share of decent projects.

But still, it’s a look inside Fletcher’s inner thought process, and if Ray thought the old man was a little softer, he would say that the wide stacks of analog film were his main source of inspiration. Perhaps a standard to how he _should_ be living, like a celebrity in the underbelly of fame and notoriety. But Ray’s not stupid and Fletcher’s a hardened old cunt, so money is the only inspiration that shines in his shade-covered eyes. Money, money, money. Always biting him in the ass, because where Fletcher sniffs, Ray gets bitten, leading them to the former’s latest escapade.

“I can only repeat this so many times, darling.” Fletcher is earnest from where he’s been placed – quite forcibly – in his creaky dining chair. “At this point I have to wonder if you’re not . . . well, you know.” He flaps his hand at Ray’s quickly tiring existence. “A bit challenged. Mentally, that is.”

Ray blinks and pinches his nose. _Christ_ , he’ll shoot him before the night finishes.

“Now is not the time to be running your mouth and attempting to be funny —“

“You can’t blame me for putting it out there, Raymond! I’ve only told you eight bloody times! I’m not sure how many more bedtime stories I’ve got in me.”

“That’s right,” Ray drawls out. Finally, something they can agree on. He leans forward from where he’s stationed himself across Fletcher, and Fletcher leans back, twitchy smile turning just a tad twitchier. “You’ve told me your little story a handful of times. Each time the same, down to the last detail.”

“Well, I’m not sure how good of a storyteller I’d be if I was changing things without a care —“

“But,” Ray stresses, and if he shifts a tad closer to old cunt just to remind him when and when not to speak, well. He’s sure no one would blame him. “It’s not _your_ account I’m interested in, eh? I want reality, Fletcher. Not a work of smoke-addled fiction put on by too many reruns of your Friday Night Favorite.”

Fletcher, to his credit, doesn’t seem to elate or deflate at Ray’s insistence. Just smiles and darts his eyes down to the pocket of Ray’s raincoat, where his ol’ reliable stays holstered, at least for the time being. Presented with two options, his internal debate lasts not even a handful of seconds.

“I suppose you’ll want me to start from before the beginning. A prequel, one might say.”

Ray‘s mouth wobbles around a tight little spliff. “If you’d be so kind.”

“Anything for you, darling. Kind, soft, and gentle, I am.” Fletcher aims for lecherous but his heart isn’t quite in it, which is a shame. He scuffs his polished loafers on his dirt-beige rug and blows out a long-tired breath. “If it’s a prequel you desire, then who am I to deny such a reasonable request. I must warn you, though —“ he lifts a warning finger, aimed like a gun. “This screenplay isn’t quite as polished as the last one, is it? Criticism isn’t welcomed, let alone underworked, overpaid commentators.”

“You’ll find that _underworked_ isn’t a characteristic of mine, Fletcher.” Ray notions him to continue with a wave of his hand. “Hurry on, now. Give us the opening scene.“

“All right, Raymond, all right. Once more, with feeling, is it?” Fletcher rubs at his long-grey whiskers, a little thoughtful, a little dejected. “I suppose – if you want a beginning _before_ the beginning, that is – that it would do the audience well to introduce a few additions to our gangster ensemble.”

Ray holds his tongue from cursing the wrinkled bastard too harshly. “I knew you were holding out on me, you secretive shit.” He bites a scowl and blows the smoke of his spliff right into Fletcher’s face, because fuck him.

“Yes, I know. I’m a dirty old man, we’re quite aware.” Fletcher shoos the smoke away without much care. “But if we’re going to write a new script, then we should write it right. And we’re not right until we’ve set the stage and showcased our fine, brand-spanking new, well-to-do characters.” He’s starting to get into his rhythm now, upright and grinning, and Ray prepares himself for a long night ahead.

“And none of them are quite as well-to-do as our opening man. I recommend paying special attention to this one, Ray. He’s important to the plot.”

\---

In his element, Fletcher is an absolute menace.

He’s all movement – waving, gyrating, blinking and winking. Never still for too long. It’s a bit tiring to watch him, but Ray isn’t too proud to admit that the old cunt has the gift of gab. Give the man an audience and he’ll be hard-pressed to let them escape, painting a thousand pretty pictures with nothing more than a conniving tongue and a thieving hand.

“Now,” Fletcher claps grandly, no longer an interrogated, harried dog. “If we’re going to establish an introduction to our pre-sequel, we’ll need a strong, sturdy gent to bring us into the fold.” He considers Ray for a moment. “Perhaps a visual presentation would benefit those bespectacled eyes of yours.”

Ray can live without the P.I.’s benefits. He’s already been forced to abandon his evening routine of Earl Grey before dinner, and he doesn’t have time for all of the pomp and circumstance. Sensing an impending migraine, he closes his eyes and counts 1/3 of the seconds in a minute, reminding himself of Mickey’s preference to keep Fletcher’s body bullet-free.

“It can never be a simple _Point A to Point B_ , can it?” he pulls another drag from his spliff, weariness etched into his mouth. “You like the sound of your voice too much, Fletcher.”

“I was made for monologues, darling.” Fletcher says. “Now, where were we . . . ah!” He stands up from his creaky chair, loafers thundering down on his already worn floorboards like heavy weights. “Wait right where you are, my sweet. We’ll be needing puppets for this production.” Ray is too underwhelmed by it all to do anything other than stew in Fletcher’s geriatric-styled parlor, but he can hear the blathering bastard as he skitters off to rummage near the bedroom, muttering about visuals and setting the scene. He checks his watch – 9:26.

He waits, takes a moment to squint at a suspicious stain on the leather-bound double sofa he’s claimed and wonders how long it’s been since the upholstery’s been stripped and cleaned.

9:27.

His evening cup of Earl Grey is especially missed, and Ray can’t keep from fretting about whether or not he’s allowed the meat in his refrigerator marinate for too long. He’ll have to eat his supper for breakfast, once this whole Fletcher business is done and over with.

9:28.

Fletcher returns with a worse-for-wear binder, stuffed and ready to burst as he shakes it with enthusiasm. He holds it close to his chest as he settles back into his chair, simmering with self-satisfaction.

“Just in time for the 9:30 showing, am I? Want to make sure you get your money’s worth,” his grin turns sour, greedy. “Because as sure as God put feathers on those little birds you eat for brunch, a ticket to this film _will_ be taking a pretty little penny out of your pretty little wallet.”

Ray considers this, thoughtful. “When you’re good at something, you’ll charge everyone. When you’re great at something, they’ll pay you.”

“Oh, don’t be a cunt.” Fletcher laughs, unbothered. “Now, you know my style quite well by this point, but I don’t mind recapping for your sake, my love. The basics: analog, of course. 35 millimeter, grainy, don’t be too shy with the dialogue, now. But – and don’t turn the idea away just yet – why don’t we add a bit more action to our modern gangster flick, eh? Get a little dirty in the heat of the moment, because this little tale of ours is about as hot as they come.”

He must see something pique in Ray’s expression, because Fletcher snaps his fingers and grins, vicious.

“Yes, my dear, we’re in store for a bloody tale of backstabbing, bribing, and good old-fashioned _murder_. Not so different from your typical Sunday. And none of it would have started without our good friend –” he takes a moment to riffle through his binder, producing a crisp photograph as grainy and colorful as his imaginary movies. Ray recognizes the man pictured as easily as he recognizes Fletcher. “Arthur Oglebay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've edited and re-edited this opening chapter within an inch of it's life before deciding to just combine it with the first half of what was supposed to be the second chapter. It's become apparent that I'll be slow to update, despite all of my attempts to create a coherent outline and plot, but at least I have something to show for it!

**Author's Note:**

> As always, my hyperfixations have destroyed me. At least I have something to occupy myself with during quarantine. Charlie Hunnam is too handsome to ignore, so I decided to write a little mystery fic to keep me preoccupied.
> 
> Comments are always welcomed!


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